


There Are No Ghosts In Beacon Hills

by CallieB



Series: Sterek Bingo 2017 [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW, SBshiftedderek, Sterek Bingo 2017, sbhorror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:12:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: There are no ghosts in Beacon Hills.There are no monsters in Beacon Hills.Everyone is a stranger in Beacon Hills - and that's how it should be.So why does Stiles feel like he's been here before?Written for theShifted!DerekandHorrorsquares on my Sterek Bingo card.





	1. Don't Look

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note on the dubcon tag - it really is very mild, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. It only occurs in Chapter 2 and I've put a spoilery explanation for it in the end notes of that chapter.

The house was enormous, a crusting throwback to Gothic architecture and long neglect, with knee-high grasses in the back garden and thickly layered dust on the floorboards. Stiles had loved it since the first time they had seen it, could see the potential hidden behind the old crumbling bricks and peeling wallpaper, and although Derek groused about the expense, Stiles could tell he liked the idea of it too. Of renovating, making something new out of something old. It appealed to his fix-the-world disposition.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked Stiles doubtfully, looking around the kitchen at the stacks of cardboard boxes left by the moving company. They had eaten breakfast at their own rickety wooden table, hauled in amidst the boxes and looking odd in the enormous room, and now Stiles was washing up the ketchup-covered plates at the sink underneath the grimy window.

Stiles grinned at his husband. “Go to work,” he said. “Have a good day. Boss people around. Take your lunch with you.” He adopted a high-pitched falsetto. “I’ll have dinner waiting on the table when you get home, honey.”

“House-husband,” Derek said with a snort. “Never would have thought it would suit you.” Stiles had not been a stay-at-home husband back in Chicago. He’d been a social worker, working with recently released prisoners from the state penitentiary to help them find jobs and homes and get their lives back on track.

They hadn’t been parents then.

“I’ll be fine,” he told Derek. “I love you. See you later.”

Truth be told, there was an odd squirming in his stomach as he watched Derek walk down the broad garden path out the front, weeds springing up between every cracked paving slab. He didn’t know anybody here in Beacon Hills, and as large and full of potential as their new home was, it was also isolated, on the outskirts of town. He didn’t have any immediate neighbours to meet. Back in Chicago, he’d been surrounded by people all the time, in their cosy flat near the prison. Here, there was only the forest, the wide-open spaces between the trees.

He’d asked the movers to put his and Derek’s king-sized bed in one of the downstairs rooms for the time being, but he already knew where their bedroom would eventually be. At the top of the stairs, the master bedroom had a huge bay window, a dressing room and an ensuite bathroom. The windows were south-facing, so that the room was already bathed in light when Stiles made his way upstairs to look at it. The carpet smelled suspect, and the wallpaper was an ugly old-fashioned print that was ripped in places, but he could see how it _could_ look.

It was difficult to know where to start; he had an electrician coming in the afternoon to look at the wiring, but until then he was on his own. He spent the morning ripping up the carpet, creating a space out in the front yard for a bonfire to get rid of the musty fabric. He added the heavy yet cheap-feeling curtains when he was done with the carpet, and spent some time watching them shrivel and burn in the fire.

After a shower – so weak that he would definitely need to get a plumber in – Stiles drove into town to get some lunch. This was partly because he was too exhausted to cook up the pasta and bacon he currently had waiting in the refrigerator, but mostly because Stiles was a social animal at heart. He had spent too much of the day alone; he needed to meet some people now.

Beacon Hills didn’t really seem to have a proper high street; everything was spaced just far enough away from each other that you needed a car to get from one place to another. Stiles pulled up outside a brightly-lit diner with red awning, twitching restlessly as he got out of the Jeep. Being alone didn’t suit him particularly well; his ADHD was flaring, and his fingers tapped agitatedly against the side of his leg as he walked into the diner.

It was very All-American, with a shiny counter all along the far wall with red and white striped stools pushed up against it, and little booths in a neat row in front of the window. Slightly tinny music played from the jukebox off to his left, although rather incongruously it was playing current chart hits rather than the country western or 60s pop that the surroundings felt like they ought to inspire. Stiles felt better already underneath the harsh neon lighting, the smell of bacon grease filling the air.

He sat at the counter, eyes flickering around him. There were about twelve or fourteen people already in the diner, although nobody was really looking his way; Beacon Hills wasn’t so small that everyone knew each other, so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that he was a newcomer. Most of the other customers were sat at tables, but there was a pretty red-headed girl sitting a few stools down from Stiles, head bent over a book while neatly manicured fingers followed the text.

A waitress in a yellow dress and white apron came to stand in front of him, her blonde hair teased into large 50s rolls. She smiled at him, although the gesture felt just a little empty. “What can I get you?” she asked, her voice a rolling Southern twang.

Stiles ordered a burger and a strawberry milkshake, because that was what you were supposed to eat in diners, and then he tried to engage the waitress in conversation simply because he was lonely. The waitress, it transpired, would not be engaged.

“Sorry, I have to wipe down tables,” she said in a flat voice. The tables looked pretty clean to Stiles, but he figured she probably just didn’t want to talk to him. It usually took people longer than that to get sick of his rambles, but some people just weren’t sociable, he guessed.

After lunch, he headed to the hardware store to pick up some buffing pads for the floorboards in the bedroom, the supermarket to get some food for dinner, and then the library just for the hell of it. He liked libraries; he would need a library card. Beacon Hills library was small and cosy, made out of smooth white-grey stone with glass doors, and all the books were lined neatly on white IKEA shelving. Stiles picked up his card, and then whiled away half an hour wandering through the aisles, tracing the titles printed on the spines of the books with his fingers.

There was a noticeboard near the double doors at the front of the library, where people could put up advertisements for services and goods for sale; Stiles pulled off a ticket with the phone number for a local plumbing service, shoving the scrap of paper into his pocket.

“I wouldn’t,” said a cool female voice from behind him. Stiles turned around.

It was the red-haired girl from the diner. She looked even more attractive up close, with strawberry curls hanging just past her shoulders and bright red lipstick on her mouth. Stiles said, too loudly: “What?”

She nodded toward the noticeboard. “Emerson & Sons Plumbing,” she said. “They’re terrible. Everyone in town knows it.” She tipped her pretty head to one side. “You must be new.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, feeling unaccountably awkward. “I just moved here with my husband.” He hesitated. “Do you have any recommendations…?”

“Lydia,” she filled in for him. “Try Jessops Waterworks.”

Stiles fished his cell out of his pocket, putting the name into his notes so he wouldn’t forget it. “Thanks,” he said. “Lydia,” he added.

“No problem,” Lydia replied, tossing her head. “I’ll see you around, Stiles.”

She strode confidently away, almost certainly well aware that Stiles was watching her go with his mouth slightly ajar; he might be happily married to Derek, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be completely captivated by someone so self-assuredly beautiful. She was the type of girl, he thought, that were he not as in love with Derek as he was, he could quite easily become totally stupid over.

It was probably a good thing he was married.

He got home – and wasn’t that odd to think, that this new house was his home now? – in time to walk the electrician through the house and haggle him down from his frankly obscene quote for the work to be done; then he made a casserole and put it in the oven in preparation for Derek’s return from work, which made him feel like way more of a housewife than he really liked.

He’d never not worked before, but they’d discussed it before moving, and it made the most sense. Derek made more as a police deputy than Stiles had doing social work, and when the baby was born neither of them wanted a stranger looking after their child. That was still another four months away, of course, but there was no point in Stiles getting a job for so short a time now that they had moved, and besides, somebody needed to get the house in order, and there was no way that was going to be Derek with his shocking lack of DIY skills.

Stiles was on the phone with Erica when Derek got home; he liked to check in with her every couple of days and see how the baby was doing, how _she_ was doing. She always grumbled about his frequent calls, but he knew she liked the attention. She didn’t have very many people checking up on her wellbeing; her parents had kicked her out when they found out she was pregnant, even when she told them she was giving the baby up for adoption. She and Stiles had become pretty good friends over the last few months.

“How’s Erica?” Derek asked when he hung up the phone. Stiles didn’t answer for a few minutes, because Derek looked freaking hot as hell in his deputy’s uniform, and kind of needed to be aggressively made out with before any conversation could be possible.

They were both red-faced and panting when they pulled apart; Stiles smiled goofily at his fucking gorgeous husband, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“She’s good,” he said. “Tired, she says, but the morning sickness is easing up, and she only ate one and a half jars of pickles today, so.”

“Turn-up,” Derek agreed solemnly. “How was your day?”

“How was _yours_?” Stiles countered. “You’re the one who started the new job, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said, more out of habit than anything else at this stage.

Stiles grinned, but ignored this interlude. “What’s the job like?” he asked.

Derek shrugged. “I think it’s going to be good,” he said, sliding his arm around Stiles’ waist and into the back pocket of his jeans. “The Sheriff has the same name as you, it’s funny.”

Stiles tugged Derek over to the squashy maroon couch underneath the window, snuggling into his side as they both sit down. This – just talking, catching up on each other’s days after work – was his favourite time of day. “What, Stiles?” he says, oddly chagrined. He kind of liked being unique in the name department.

“No,” Derek said, sounding amused, undoubtedly because he knew what Stiles was thinking. “Stilinski. It’s not a particularly common name, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said, as though he actually had any idea. “With my extensive knowledge of Polish heritage—”

Derek snorted. “You don’t even know if your name _is_ Polish.”

“Shut up,” Stiles said with dignity. “I guess you’ll never forget your boss’ name.”

“Yeah,” Derek said thoughtfully. “He was a nice guy. He seemed…” Stiles waited while Derek considered; when they’d first got together, he’d found Derek’s habit of really thinking about what he wanted to say super annoying, but now he liked waiting for the end result. “…lonely,” Derek finished. “He seemed lonely, I guess.”

“Well, maybe you guys will be friends,” Stiles said. “You should invite him round when I’ve done the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed. He smiled, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ forehead. “Tell me about your day.”

Stiles leaned up to kiss him, feeling Derek’s lips warm and soft underneath his own. “I met a girl,” he teased. “At the library.”

“The library, huh,” Derek said, the words tailing off into a gasp as Stiles licked the sensitive spot just underneath his jawline. “I guess that’s me screwed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles panted. “She was fucking gorgeous, too.”

“Tell me more,” Derek said. He nipped Stiles’ earlobe, his teeth scraping down the line of Stiles’ neck; Stiles shuddered in anticipated pleasure.

“She approached me,” Stiles said, swinging to straddle Derek’s lap. “She definitely wanted me. No question about it.” Derek’s answering chuckle rumbled through his torso.

“Who wouldn’t?” he said, and then there was no more talking for a while. There was only the scramble for the buttons of Derek’s beige shirt, the slide of the zipper on Stiles’ favourite red hoodie, the press of skin together. Derek’s fingers tightened in Stiles’ hair, blunt nails scraping across his scalp, and Stiles held Derek’s angular face in his hands, kissing him hard, again and again.

Derek’s skin was hot, or maybe it just felt that way, like Stiles was being filled up with heat, like it was bubbling up inside him as he ran his hands over Derek’s chest, fingertips sliding beneath the waistband of his pants. His own face felt flushed, as though he was sick, overheated with his own lust, desperate to get as close as he possibly could to his husband.

Being with Derek always felt like this. There was an urgency to their love-making, like they might lose each other if they didn’t hold on tight enough, like there was electricity pouring through them, like they could set the world on fire if anyone else were stupid enough to touch them.  Even when he was as wrapped up in Derek as he could possibly be, their legs squeezed together, Derek’s strong thighs flexing around Stiles’ waist, their chests pressed against each other, Stiles’ cock plunging deep inside Derek’s ass, he still wanted more. Still felt like they needed to be closer, needed to be melded more tightly together, even more deeply inside each other.

His head was tucked underneath Derek’s, sweaty cheeks sticking to each other, so that his deep groans were muffled against Derek’s chest while Derek gasped and panted into his hair. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to peel apart even for a moment, wanted to squeeze tight into Derek and hold on forever – but he _had_ to move, he had to, because his cock was inside his husband and it was so sensitive that he felt like he was dying. He needed the release, needed the friction, and so they moved together, bodies sliding sweatily against each other so that it built and built, and finally—

It was like seeing stars, except stars weren’t big enough, weren’t bright enough, to encompass everything that was rushing through him. It was more like an _explosion_ of stars, like the Big Bang, with all those constellations and galaxies pouring out of this single moment, speeding away to form new empires, a single second stretching into an eternity, and then – then – he was close enough, he was deep enough inside Derek, they weren’t two separate people anymore but one, a single entity gasping together and coming together in an endless stream of feeling and movement—

Then it was over, the pulsating waves of sensation slowly ebbing away, and it was just Derek and Stiles again, lying lopsidedly on the couch with their arms and bodies wrapped around each other. Stiles was shaking in the come-down, and Derek was breathing heavily, one hand thrown up over his face.

“I love you,” Stiles said. Derek smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek, his thumb tracing Stiles’ jaw.

“I love you too,” he said softly.

They ate their casserole naked at the kitchen table, because why the hell not? They could do it for another four months – be naked without anyone to judge or even know it was happening. Derek grinned at Stiles over a mouthful of steaming pork.

“She must have been some girl,” he said, raising one thick eyebrow.

Stiles laughed. “Yeah,” he said. He recalled the way her hair had swung so silkily over her shoulder as she’d turned to walk away on spindly heels, the cool bold confidence in her voice. _I’ll see you around, Stiles_. She had sounded so sure that it was true; Stiles found himself hoping that she was right.

Later that night, he curled into Derek’s side as he slept. Derek always found it easier to drift off than Stiles did, although tonight he seemed restless in slumber, shuffling and tossing in bed. Stiles stroked his chest soothingly, drawing in Derek’s body heat as he prepared to fall asleep himself.

Sleep did not seem to be coming easily. Stiles, oddly enough, had never been a particularly restless sleeper; he just lay perfectly peaceful and perfectly alert, unable to relax enough to actually so much as doze. Derek wasn’t helping matters, still shifting agitatedly and occasionally muttering under his breath.

“Shh,” Stiles murmured to his husband. Derek _growled_ at him, which was so amusing that Stiles had to choke back a laugh. He’d have to remember to tease Derek about that in the morning. It wasn’t like him to make noises in his sleep.

It had to be gone two in the morning; Stiles rolled onto his back, looking up at the dark ceiling. It was higher than he was used to; the flat they had lived in in Chicago had had small, low-ceilinged rooms. He tried to distract himself from the odd snuffling noises Derek was making by thinking about the things he needed to do the next day; he had to start working on the bedroom floor with the buffing pads he had bought from the hardware store, as well as calling the plumber.

Thinking about the plumber made him start thinking about Lydia again, although he was starting to feel a little guilty about how much she was playing on his mind. There was something about her that seemed oddly _familiar_ , as though he’d dreamt about her before, although that was probably the dim early morning shadows playing tricks on his mind. He thought about her pale, curved face, her wide bright eyes, the slight dimple beside her mouth. That voice, so cool, so self-assured. _I’ll see you around, Stiles_. As though… as though she was telling him something, or trying to. More than just a casual piece of small talk.

_I’ll see you around, Stiles_. But how would she? He didn’t even know her last name. She didn’t know where he lived, or who he was, or—

Stiles sat up abruptly, making Derek shiver in his sleep as the covers were tugged off his bare chest.

_I’ll see you around, Stiles_.

He hadn’t told her his name.

She’d introduced herself to him, given him something to call her in that crisp voice like a sheet of glass, but he hadn’t returned the favour. He hadn’t told her his name.

He was sure of it. He would have remembered. People always questioned his nickname, always, and she didn’t. She had already known it.

How the hell had she known his name?


	2. Something Wicked

“What do you think happened to this place?” Stiles asked, pausing briefly to set his paintbrush down and look across the newly fitted kitchen at Derek. It was one of Derek’s rare days off, so they were working together on the house, although in many ways this took twice as long because Derek was so bad at doing it that they had to keep stopping to have sex instead.

Derek, obviously grateful for the excuse to take a break, carefully swiped his own brush against the lip of the pot to remove excess paint before laying it down. He wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. “I don’t know,” he said. He smiled at Stiles, that lovely wide genuine smile that Stiles loved so much. “What makes you think something happened to it?”

One of the things that Stiles loved about Derek was the way he always took Stiles seriously, even when he sounded crazy. He listened, and nodded, and reassured; it was what he had done three weeks ago, when Stiles had woken him up to tell him about Lydia knowing his name.

Derek was sleepy and confused, but he lay on his side with his eyes bright and beady in the darkness, looking up at Stiles and listening to the garbled explanation. He didn’t complain about the time of night that it was. He didn’t dismiss Stiles’ fears, and after a lifetime of being misunderstood and ignored, that meant a lot.

When Stiles had finished, he pushed himself up onto one elbow, the covers slipping from his gleaming naked chest, and considered the matter thoughtfully. Derek was an extremely thoughtful person, as Stiles had come to discover in the years they’d been married.

“Were you wearing anything with your name on it?” he asked. “Your shoulder bag has a tag on the inside flap.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t occurred to Stiles. He tried to think back to what he’d been wearing. “I don’t think so,” he said, his voice rising. “And even if I was, it would be way too small to see!”

“I can see this has got you stressed,” Derek said carefully. “Can you take a breath for me, Stiles?”

As always, the use of his name helped Stiles to calm down. He sucked in a deep, long breath. “Sorry,” he said. “I just… I don’t like things I don’t understand. And there was something about this girl… it’s like I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know.” He shook his head, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion crash over him.

Derek smiled, looking relieved that the brief storm of panic had passed. “Should I be worried?” he teased.

Stiles shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said.

Derek tipped his head to one side. “Some people like to show off,” he said. “If you were wearing a name label, or even if she’d already heard about you—”

“How could she have heard about me?” Stiles interjected, his voice too loud in the cool evening air. Derek waved his words gently away.

“This town isn’t that big,” he said. “People must have heard about the new deputy. Particularly a gay new deputy. Perhaps she put two and two together. Perhaps she has connections at the real estate agency. Maybe she heard you tell someone else.”

Stiles remembered the diner. “I was talking to a waitress in front of her before the library,” he told Derek. “I can’t remember if I told her my name or not. I might have.”

“There you are,” Derek said, and Stiles found himself reluctantly smiling. “I’m sure it’s not that difficult for someone smart to figure out someone else’s name without asking.”

As that was almost exactly the way Stiles had asked Derek out, he could only push ineffectually at his husband’s broad muscular shoulder. “Shut up,” he mumbled. The late night was clearly affecting his powers of judgement; usually he was the one being careful, rational. He told Derek as much.

Derek smiled. “I get a turn once in a while,” he said peaceably, pulling Stiles into his arms and pressing an untidy kiss to his hairline.

“I love you,” Stiles murmured as he finally drifted off to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning all he was focused on was what colour to paint their bedroom walls.

Now, three weeks later, Stiles rocked back on his heels and took a moment to consider why exactly he felt as though something had happened in this ancient crumbly house that had somehow become their home. “It feels weird,” he decided at last. “Sad. I don’t know. Is that crazy?”

“No,” Derek said slowly. “I know what you mean.” He pushed himself up, his body moving fluidly as he uncurled it into a standing position. He was standing in a dusty stream of light coming in from the big veranda doors, and he was beautiful. He had the sleeves of his grey Henley pushed up so that Stiles could trace the lines of his tanned arms with his eyes, his jeans hanging low on his hips and his feet incongruously bare. Stiles grinned at him.

“Fuck,” he said with feeling. “You’re hot.”

Derek blushed, just a little, and rolled his eyes. “Stiles,” he said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his eyes still travelling across Derek’s broad chest. “Yeah, right. Weird creepy house. Bad atmosphere. Totally important right now.”

“Oh, shut up,” Derek said, and he leapt forward to cup his large hand around Stiles’ cheek, crushing their mouths together. He felt hot and sticky, his body pressing hard against Stiles, and Stiles felt just a little dizzy as he leaned into his husband’s tight embrace.

“We still have to paint the kitchen,” Stiles said, his voice muffled in Derek’s mouth. He felt Derek’s thumb graze his cheek, soft and light.

Derek didn’t seem to have any intention of moving; if anything, his grip on Stiles tightened a little. “It can wait,” he growled. The tips of his fingers were sliding underneath the waistband of Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles laughed breathlessly. “The other Stilinski will be here in less than twenty-four hours,” he pointed out. “Don’t you want it done by then?”

Derek nipped his ear. “Stop calling him that,” he said. “You’ll do it to his face and I’ll…”

“Cry?” Stiles suggested, and then gasped, his eyes fluttering closed as Derek’s stubble scraped against his cheek.

“Sure,” Derek murmured, clearly not listening. “Can we have sex now?”

They did have sex, the still-wet paint sliding between their bodies as they fucked on the kitchen floor. Stiles pinned Derek’s wrists above his head, grinding against his chest, and Derek moaned and writhed underneath him until Stiles plunged down to suck sloppily on his cock. He licked the soft skin around it, mouthing at the insides of Derek’s thighs and darting his tongue down to the dark sour-sweet hole in a quick teasing motion that had Derek crying out with the pleasure of it.

“Fuck – Stiles – _please_ —” he gasped, and Stiles took pity on him, licking him in earnest until they were both breathless and red in the face, and spit and pre-come was dripping down Stiles’ raw chin.

That’s when he fucked him, Derek’s back sticking to the cool kitchen tiles that had only been laid three days ago, his knees up in the air and his arms behind his head. Stiles dragged his fingernails, blunt as they were, along his husband’s broad thighs, pushing hard inside him, leaving no space for words or cries or anything but harshly panted breaths. The lights above him were too bright, the newly installed cabinets too shiny, and everything was hard and raw and brutal. He hadn’t really used enough lube, but it didn’t matter, because Derek was thrusting his hips up to meet Stiles’, rutting against him until they were both coming, like they were exploding into a thousand sharp-edged pieces, like diamonds or glass.

“Stiles,” Derek said weakly, as Stiles collapsed onto his chest, wet cock slithering out of his husband’s ass.

“Love you too,” Stiles panted. Derek pressed a breathless kiss to his hairline.

They lay there until the afterglow had faded enough that it wasn’t comfortable anymore, and then Stiles forced himself up, his body suddenly cold and shivery from being pressed against the chilly tiles. Apart from the newly created mess on the floor, the kitchen really did look nice; Stiles had had a plumber in to redo the pipes, and he’d gone with a muted blue and white theme. Derek, of course, didn’t really care, but even he’d had to admit that Stiles had done a good job.

There was patterned blue and gold wallpaper over in the dining area, but the kitchen itself was in the process of being painted a pale blue. Stiles had taped over the edges of the Corian worktops to avoid drips, a process which Derek had watched in some amazement. Handy he was not; if it had been up to Derek, they would have dived right in with paintbrushes without any preparation at all.

“Shower?” Derek asked. He was watching Stiles, his eyes alight and beautiful. He was wearing that little crinkled smile that belonged to Stiles and no one else.

Stiles gave a shaky laugh. “Shower,” he agreed. “And a clean-up. Dude, if your boss comes over and smells come on the floor…”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said automatically. “He’s not even going to be here until tomorrow night. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Just saying,” Stiles said airily, leading the way to the bathroom. It still wasn’t renovated, but then there was only so much he could do in three weeks. At least with the plumbing done, they were actually getting a decent water pressure now. (And fuck that smartass Lydia bitch for being right about Jessops Waterworks, too).

Derek followed him upstairs and into their ensuite. The bedroom was looking about twelve times better than it had when they’d moved in; Stiles had decided to keep the floorboards after realising that they were genuine oak, and he’d spent nearly three days cleaning and polishing them until they gleamed. Their bed faced the window, and there was a line of heavy oak wardrobes along the long wall. It still wasn’t completely finished – Stiles still shuddered every time he saw the cheap IKEA curtains he’d bought until he found some proper ones he liked – but it was a vast improvement.

Derek, bless him, seemed to think so too. He always made an effort to ask Stiles about the choices he’d made, to compliment the wallpaper he’d found at an antiques market a few miles out of town, or the one-of-a-kind footstool he’d picked up for a steal at a county auction, even when he had no idea of the value of any of it. Their house was starting to take on an old-fashioned glamour that gelled rather well with the more modern touches here and there; Stiles was rather proud of himself.

He would have liked to say he was modest about it, but it would have been a lie. “This room looks epic,” he said smugly as they walked through it, not for the first time.

Derek laughed. “Yeah,” he agreed. He looked around the bathroom, with its depressing array of dank tiles and chipped taps. Stiles had scrubbed it from top to bottom almost as soon as they’d arrived, so it was no longer the unsanitary dust-magnet it had been when they’d bought the place, but it needed a proper overhaul. “What are you thinking for in here?” Derek asked.

Stiles reached inside the shower, turning the knob. “I saw this awesome tub online,” he said, putting his hand underneath the spray. “It had brass fittings, and this huge fucking shower head. And on Pinterest there was a bath, like, sunk into the floor, but that sounds massively complicated to do. And expensive.”

“Cool, though,” Derek commented, nodding as though his surroundings actually made the slightest bit of fucking difference to him. When they’d first got together, Derek had been living in an apartment with no curtains, and not a plant, cushion or decorative piece in sight. There had been actual holes in his carpet, and a massive dent in the front door that he’d never bothered to fix because, in his words, it still _worked_ as a door.

Stiles, fully aware that he was fulfilling every stereotype society had about gay men, judged him hard for it anyway, and proceeded to update the flat to within an inch of its life until Derek suggested he just make it official and move in.

Now, he turned around from the gushing water and kissed Derek hard. “I love how much you pretend to care,” he said fondly.

He could feel Derek smiling underneath his mouth. “I care,” he said. He pushed Stiles backwards, against the glass of the shower door. It wasn’t completely closed, so Stiles could feel the spray of water against the backs of his calves. “I care that you’re happy about it.”

Stiles fumbled behind him, pushing the door open a bit more so that they could both squeeze inside the narrow shower. He was definitely replacing it with something bigger, just so that they could do this. Derek pressed him against the tiles, water pouring over his head so that he was wet and delicious as he kissed Stiles again.

“Water pressure’s better than the last time we did this,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, gasping as Derek mouthed along his jawline. “Guess that Lydia girl was right about the plumbers.”

Oddly, Derek stiffened at his words, his body going rigid. “Don’t talk about her,” he growled, his breath hot on Stiles’ neck.

Stiles laughed breathlessly. “Jealous, big guy?” he teased.

Derek snatched his hands up so quickly that Stiles barely had time to process it, lifting them up and pinning them against the wall above Stiles’ head. “You’re _mine_ ,” he said, and his voice was a deep, guttural snarl that shocked Stiles into silence. “Mine,” Derek repeated for good measure.

“Der,” Stiles said, choking on his own words. Water was getting in his eyes, but his restrained hands meant he couldn’t wipe it out. “It’s – Derek—”

Derek was pressed so hard up against him that it was difficult to tell whose limbs were whose. It was overbearingly hot, and Stiles was already achingly hard again, but there was something unusually rough about it as well. “Say it,” Derek said in a low voice. “Say you’re mine.”

Stiles groaned, rutting against his husband. “I’m yours,” he said. “I’m yours, Der. Yours.”

“She means nothing to you,” Derek said in a hard voice. He paused. “Say it!”

“She means nothing to me, of course she means nothing to me,” Stiles gasped, because Derek was attacking the sensitive hollow at the base of his neck with his tongue. “I don’t even know her, dude.”

Fast, so fast, Derek turned him around, pushing him up against the wall so that his face and chest were uncomfortably squashed against the wet tiles. Derek was plastered across his back, hands gripping Stiles’ shoulder and hip. “Don’t call me that,” he said fiercely.

“Going for… the dominant… vibe there, huh?” Stiles puffed. He liked it when Derek got a little rough, sometimes, although it wasn’t like him to do it without at least talking about it first.

Derek didn’t answer; instead, he pulled away from Stiles just enough to give him a sharp smack to the rear end. Stiles yelped, simultaneously aroused and shocked. Derek spanked him again, several times, until Stiles was writhing and twitching away from his hand.

“You’re not going to see her again,” Derek said flatly. His hand was cupped over Stiles’ ass, fingers squeezing like a warning.

“Derek,” Stiles said, slightly alarmed. It wasn’t like – they’d indulged in some fairly kinky shit before, but this wasn’t their usual style. They always negotiated stuff like this ahead of time. “Der, this is a game, right?”

Derek smacked him, hard. “You’re not going to see her again,” he repeated. Stiles moaned, because fuck, there was something so sexy about his husband getting into a jealous rage, even when he knew it wasn’t real. “Say it.”

“I’m not – I won’t—” Stiles babbled. He was so hard, he just needed to— “ _Please_ , Der.”

Another stinging crack to his ass. “Say it!” Derek growled.

“I’m not going to see her again!” Stiles squealed, his voice high and reedy. “God, you’re so fucking _hot_ , Der, please, get on me already…”

And then Derek’s body was all over him, hot and wet, and there were fingers squeezing between his flaming sore cheeks and brushing his hole, and Stiles was nearly sobbing with want and lust and pure fucking need. The charged tension was fading; Derek was gasping and gentle behind him, stretching Stiles out, hands creeping forward to stroke his desperately hard cock, and for the second time in an hour Stiles was treated to a mind-blowing, world-defying release.

Afterwards, when they were both shivering, the water turning the edges of Stiles’ long fingers crinkly and sodden, Derek manoeuvred him gently out of the shower and wrapped him in one of the enormous white towels they’d brought from Chicago. He kissed Stiles on the nose. “You okay?”

Stiles wasn’t actually certain if he _was_ okay; there was something oddly shaky going on in the pit of his belly. He smiled up at Derek anyway. “You got kind of intense,” he said, touching his tender ass ruefully underneath the towel.

Derek grinned at him. “Good intense?”

“I think so,” Stiles said, his voice measured. Derek’s eyes widened, looking concerned; Stiles reached out to pat his arm consolingly. “No, it was good, man,” he said. “Just…” He hesitated. “Maybe run it by me first, next time?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said immediately. “God, shit, Stiles, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” There was an edge underneath his words that Stiles… Stiles didn’t quite like it, didn’t quite understand its familiarity, as though unexpected intensity during sex was somehow a trigger point for Derek. He found something hard inside him aching for his husband.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I came like a fucking freight train, okay? I’m not complaining.”

“I should have…” Derek began, and then stopped, frowning as though he wasn’t sure how he’d wanted that sentence to end. “I’m sorry,” he offered at last. “I should’ve known better.”

Stiles reached out to kiss him, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be wrapped up in Derek, to soothe his trembling limbs to hold him tight enough that nothing bad could happen to him ever again.

And that made the least sense of all. Because what bad thing had ever happened to him before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubcon spoiler: During sex, Derek gets a bit intense and starts spanking Stiles without talking to him about it first. They've done it before and Stiles enjoys it, but feels that they should have negotiated beforehand.


End file.
